"I think he will. It is my opinion that he has hired out to that squatter, and that he intends to trust to disguise to escape recognition. A man in citizen's clothes doesn't look much like the same man in uniform; did you ever notice that? But even if he isn't there, what odds does it make to us? We are having a good time, and I would just as soon stay out here on the plains for a week or ten days as to go back to the fort and drill."
"I say, corporal," exclaimed the sentry who was stationed at the door, "here's somebody coming, and unless my eyes are going back on me he is dressed in uniform."
"Who in the world can it be?" exclaimed Carey.
"We'll soon find out," replied Bob, "for if he has got any of our uncle's clothes on we are bound to take him in, unless he proves to be an officer."
Bob and his men hurried to the door, and, looking in the direction in which the sentry was gazing, saw a horseman about a quarter of a mile away. He had halted on the top of a ridge, and Loring, who had good "Plains eyes," declared that he was looking at them through a field-glass. He certainly was dressed in uniform, and had with him a small black mule which bore a good-sized pack on its back.
"I can't make him out," said Bob, waving his hand in the air and beckoning the horseman to approach. "He is a soldier, but what is he doing with that pack-mule? It isn't Bryant, is it? If it is, where did he get that mule and that field-glass?—Loring, you and Phillips put the bridles on your horses—never mind the saddles—and stand by to give him a race if he tries to run away. Don't mount until I give the word."
But the horseman had no intention of running away. He replied to Bob's signal by waving his hand over his head, and after putting away his field-glass rode down the ridge and came toward the station at a gallop. As he approached nearer the troopers saw that he was a stranger, and a very good-looking one, too. He was almost as dark as an Indian, his hair was long enough to reach to his shoulders, and the eyes that looked out from under the peak of his fatigue-cap were as black as midnight and as sharp as those of an eagle. He rode a magnificent horse, and his seat was easy and graceful. His only weapon—that is, the only one that could be seen—was a heavy Winchester rifle, which was slung at his back. If he was a soldier, he was a very fancy one, for his cavalry uniform, although in strict keeping with the regulations, was made of the finest material; he wore white gauntlet gloves on his hands; and instead of the ungainly, ill-fitting army shoe he wore fine boots, the heels of which were armed with small silver spurs. The troopers thought from his dress and carriage that he must be an officer, and when he drew rein in front of the station they stood at "attention" and saluted him.
"I don't deserve that honor, boys," said the stranger with a laugh; "I am not a shoulder-strap."
"You are not?" exclaimed Bob, who was not a little astonished as well as provoked at the mistake he had made. "Well, it seems to me that you are throwing on a good many frills for a private. Where do you belong?"
"At Fort Lamoine," said the stranger; and the answer was given in a tone quite as curt as was that in which the question was asked.